But Others Need Discipline
by Ross Demma
Summary: A Theory Of Bond


…But Others Need Discipline

A short story by Ross Demma

She sighed as she stared at the necessary acquisition and claim forms used in the last missions. This part of the job always was a clerical nightmare.

'_I wonder if I could hire a new person to do all this bloody filing for me.'_

A small laugh escaped her lips in spite of herself. That would only generate MORE paperwork.

"Oh, the irony." She muttered. Pressing a small intercom button on her phone, a honey-laden voice answered.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Send Q in here right away. And get a fix on James. I'd like to speak with him as soon as possible." After a moment, she added "in person."

"Right away, Ma'am." Was the only reply.

No questions, no clarification. They trained these new temps fast. Just the way it should be in MI-6. Even if this girl weren't her niece, Miss Moneypenny would be proud.

Busying herself with more paperwork was never a difficult task. There was always more paperwork. She no longer wondered why her predecessor never left his desk. After giving up on a battle to decide where to put a claim form for a missile-deflecting belt buckle: "defense" or "apparel accessories", the intercom buzzed and the sweet voice returned.

"Q is here to see you Ma'am."

"Send him in. Oh, and you do have that list of people who don't need to be buzzed in to see me, correct?"

Sheepish silence

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Q is number 4. Please don't keep either of us waiting again."

"Y-yes, Ma'am. Apologies."

She almost felt bad, but everything here is communicated for a reason.

After a moment, the buzzer clicked the lock and her office door opened. She noticed the aged face of the man simply addressed as Q. No more than 5 years her junior, his puckish eyes still sparkled at everyone who met his gaze. (She noticed his eyes sparkled twice as much when showing off his newest arsenal of high-tech gadgetry.) She had known him more from reputation than personal acquaintance and when the natural course of life claimed MI-6's previous Q, a replacement was quickly needed. Immediate placement of this man in side the agency was difficult even by British intelligence standards, but they couldn't very well carry out most missions without a resident "Gadget Man" (as the agents fondly refer to the position.) So a temporary replacement was approved in the interim. ("R" was the chap's title. You could always count on the higher-ups to squeeze all the novelty from a name.)

Bordering on losing herself completely in nostalgia, she was glad to hear Q speak up.

"You wished to see me, M?"

"Yes, have a seat." He closed the door behind him and chose the chair not directly in front of her, but slightly to her left. "Something to drink?" she gestured to her fully stocked bar to the right.

"Ginger ale. Two ice, please." She smiled and chuckled internally.

`_He thinks he's being tested. Taking the chair not directly in front of me to show he's not completely submissive, but not taking the couch in the far corner: a signal that he is aware that our relationship is strictly professional. He has never entered my office as a friend. `_ She doesn't like to read into everything, but just in case…

"MI-6 is not testing you right now, Q."

His shoulders relaxed and she noticed. Never hurts to be right though. "Your evaluation is a ways off. I've brought you in to speak about your impression of James." She handed him his drink. He looked at it thoughtfully, drank it and, after a beat said

"Scotch, then, please."

M gave her trademark, albeit nearly imperceptible, smirk and poured him ¾ of an inch of her 150 year old Scotch. James had that effect on people.

"Permission to speak candidly."

The British had a way of always asking permission in the form of a statement and Q was no slouch at it.

"Of course" M assured. 'Candid' was a loose term when it came to Q. There's no way he would ever engage his mouth before his brain could filter it. This was no exception.

"I've only met 007 on one occasion face-to-face. Not your current one, mind you, this was quite a few years back." M nodded, she herself had only worked with a sparse few, this current one included. He continued, "So far I've only been able to see a few pages of 007's dossier. Most of it seems to be strictly on a need-to-know basis and I don't have the proper clearance for those parts. Quite exciting though if even half the legends are true." She quietly cleared her throat. He was avoiding her question. She tipped her head, urging him to get to his eventual point. "Yes, well, it would seem every time you scrub a worthy agent's identity and promote him to 'James Bond', they all seem to have a similar yet necessary skill set: charming while deadly."

It was true and the pattern had neither escaped her nor did she think it was coincidence. No one in the world could do what Bond does without this balance of characteristics. She stood up and stared out of her large office window, her back to him.

"I just need to know if I'm not making a mistake in the first place. You know, promoting him. And if not, how soon before the next promotion?" She turned to face him

"How soon before he's worthy to set foot in the lab? Your lab?" Q was silent. Was she being rhetorical? How should he know when 007 was worthy? Isn't that her job? To know? He shook his head slightly as if to get the blasphemous questions to fall from his head. You don't question Mother. She was staring at him. Possibly waiting for an answer. Possibly wondering what he was shaking his head at. He went with the latter.

"I don't know. As I've mentioned, it's beyond my clearance." M thought for a moment then, taking a keycard from her pocket, she swiped it in front of the top left drawer of her desk. Her desk blotter rolled off to the right into the desk itself, revealing a tabletop touch screen. Q wondered what department they put that together for. After entering a code into the touch screen, hydraulics hissed from the only painting in the room. She pulled the painting towards her to reveal a polished steel door not much bigger than 1' x 1'. The door had a single pad on it. Q recognized the biometric thumb pad even before M had pressed her digit to it. Once the safe opened, she pulled out a huge folder and set it on her desk in front of him.

"For the next 10 minutes, " she stoically informed him "I'm upping your clearance." He gingerly took the folder to his lap, reveling in the heft of it before pulling it open. Inside, he began to understand the trinity of security needed to get this folder (if you don't count having to break into office of the head of one of the most feared and respected intelligence agencies on the planet.)

The contents were astounding: page after page of reports and photos containing descriptions of cartels and terrorist factions. Some of which were merely rumors to your average person. Then there were the feats Bond performed. The measures and judgments he used to take down these…juggernauts of evil. Q had to remember to breathe. Also in these reports, he noticed another pattern: among the short list of friends and allies there was always a woman.

Her fate was always different, sometimes she lived, sometimes it was quick and painless (he assumed) but he could only imagine it left 007 the same way. And yet he still gets up and does what he does: without noticeable fatigue. With unflappable resolve and determination. Q had never known. He had no idea what was being done to keep himself and his loved ones safe. He felt his face grow hot and a lump rise in his throat. NO. Not in M's office. He fought it back and with a heavy sigh, he closed the last of the folder knowing he would never see the likes of its contents again. But he could never unlearn what he knows now. M stepped forward and he gently handed her the folder, thanking her with his eyes. M saw. She saw in Q's eyes the answer to her doubt. She locked the folder back up wondering how the doubt could've been there to begin with.

"I have got my answer, Q."

"Ma'am?"

"Thank you."

Q steadily got up. "Glad I could help." He was sincere, but she noticed he sounded a bit puzzled. Q quietly left her office; she overheard him thanking her secretary on his way out. M saw that he didn't drink his Scotch. She slid it over to herself and downed it, turning the faceted glass slightly back and forth on her desk. She was alone with her thoughts for one of the few times in her demanding duties. She didn't often question how she got here; she just did her job like she thought she was supposed to.

Before a new thought could form in her already overworked mind, her door lock buzzed. James entered with a cautious resolve, as always. M mentally thanked her secretary for learning from her mistakes so quickly.

"You wanted to see me?" he finally said.

"Yes, James, thank you for getting here so quickly. Please have a seat."

He went to sit down, but not before closing the door behind him.


End file.
